Writing blog, probably

I can’t see the end.

When the mountain cried, the moon wondered why. It wasn’t the sort of crying that humans would recognize, of course, but it was crying all the same. The moon wondered for hours, often asking the mountain why it was crying, but the mountain never answered. The morning came quickly that night, and the moon lost its chance. But it was curious and concerned enough to return the next night. It asked again, asking the mountain what was wrong. Why was the mountain crying? Had something happened? The mountain never answered. The moon felt slighted by this, sure the mountain was trying to make a fool of it. It stayed away the next night, and the night after that too, but returned on the third, hoping the mountain would have calmed enough to answer. The mountain had calmed, yes, but when the moon asked again what had happened, a single tear rolled down the face of the mountain. Then the moon understood. The mountain was not slighting it. The mountain had lost its voice and was unable to answer. After realizing so, the moon wept. This time, it was the mountain’s turn to ask what was wrong. But it could not. It tried for many hours that night, and the next, and the next, trying to say even a single word. And again and again, night after night, it failed. So the moon and the mountain wept together, unable to speak, unable to comfort.

Kian had heard the girl ask for her money back, but he knew she was better off without it. She had looked almost frightened when she had given him her money, so he had probably scared her when he looked at it so closely. He hadn’t meant to, but it really was rather rare to be paid with a two dollar bill. He was curious if the one she had given given him was the cursed one. And it was. The rest of his workday passed uneventfully, seeing as he was only a cashier, and a fairly new one at that. When he returned to his apartment, he tried to drop his coat on the floor. Sadly, instead of landing with a satisfying thump, it floated to his height and folded its sleeves at him. “Apologies, my friend.” He smiled sheepishly. “I forgot which one of you I was wearing.” It shrugged, folded itself up, and plopped down on the top shelf of his closet. Kian sighed. His things could be dramatic, but it was fun to have them all the same.

There were no flowers left when he returned. At least, there weren’t any where they always had been. He hadn’t been away for that long, only about five years, but even so, many things had changed. He wandered around what had always been his special place, hoping to find at least one flower. He would’ve been happy even it was only a daisy he found. But there was nothing. It was all gray concrete, tall buildings with no flower boxes, and little bits of dried up, yellow grass here and there. But no flowers. He needed the flower for her, to show her that he’d returned, that yes, he really was back. She had never really trusted him until he gave her a flower. He hadn’t really trusted her until she gave him one in return. It had been their little ‘thing’. Five years ago, he had left her with the promise to return with a flower in hand. It’s not that she wouldn’t have been happy to see him even without a flower, but he had promised. After about thirty minutes, he finally found a flower shop. It looked promising from the outside. After all, flower shops usually do sell flowers, don’t they? But he was still disappointed with the inside. Everything in there was fake. There were no living things – nothing but paper flowers, plastic plants, rocks with floral designs painted on. But no living flowers. He looked for the owner, but there was no one there. He should have known. Of course this would one of the shops that had closed long ago for lack of business, but still looked like it was open because of the maintenance that was required for everything built, whether it was still in operation or not. He had to look somewhere else for flowers. Maybe there would be a few still living on the outskirts of town, if there was any dirt left. He left the shop quickly, hesitating for a moment, until he decided to head straight down the street to the east. Towards where the sun used to be. He walked for another fifteen minutes, but when the lights started to turn off, he was forced to stop before he tripped over his own feet for lack of light.

“Then die for your crimes.” She didn’t want to kill him, he knew. But she did anyway. She always did, never questioning what her superior told her. She didn’t know that he was innocent. She had never caught him doing anything, but she killed him anyway. She didn’t know he wasn’t the one people feared, hated, mistrusted. She thought the people loved her. She thought they were grateful. She was wrong. She was the true villain.

The magician was in love. He wasn’t in love with her, nor her sister, friend, or anything else like that, but with her magic. He was in love with the intricate ins and outs of her spells, woven into the air. He was in love with the way her magic manifested, the way it was never quite the same from day to day. Some days, her magic was sound. Clear, new, tinkling bells, mixed with the pitter-patter of rain, the splashing of puddles, the wind through the young and old trees. Other days, her magic appeared in smells. The smells of warm bread, just coming out the oven, mixed with the smell of heat on a cold day, the ocean’s waves lapping on the beach, flowers in spring. Often, her magic came in lights. Bright, pale green light dancing with laughing, unhurried blue lights, twirling sleepily from red, to yellow, to a deep, slow, purple. But rarest of all, and the magic he loved the most, was when her magic was feeling. Such as the feel of warm sunlight on his face after a cold winter, or the cool, crisp air of fall filling his lungs, or the texture of a leaf, unfurling for the first time.